romeo remeemed

chapter 13

ariel

I cling tight to Dylan's hand as he hurries up the walkway toward the cluster of hunkered brown buildings that make up Solvang High. It's another beautiful day, and most of the school is out on the grass eating breakfast or hanging on the benches that line the path, soaking up the morning sun before heading for homeroom. Everyone seems to be in an unusually cheerful mood, but the loud conversations and bursts of laughter fade as Dylan and I rush by. Heads turn, and voices drop to a whisper. It's obvious people are shocked to see us together-the school bad boy and the shy, strange freak. I can feel their attention like fingers poking into my skin, leaving tender places behind. I risk a peek at our audience from behind my braids. Most people look curious, or skeptical, or amused, but a few of the girls are smiling with melty looks in their eyes. They seem happy. For me. It's crazy. Impossible. I can barely believe this is real, that twenty minutes ago Dylan bashed in the faces of his friends for me. That he defended me, and kept his promise to make sure everyone knows I matter to him. It boggles my mind, makes me feel dizzy and off center as he veers off the path toward the library. Even in my most secret, cheesy, romantic imaginings, I never let myself whip up anything like this. I tip my head down, hiding a smile I can't control. This is nuts. This is a fairy tale. This is my life. I hold the knowledge tight inside me, letting it burn until it feels like my heart is catching fire. But in a good way. I can't imagine being cold or lonely or scared again. Not so long as Dylan's hand is in mine and we are we. We are we. I don't think there's any question about that after what just happened, but we might as well make it official. "So," I whisper as Dylan pushes into the library and stops to scan the shelves. "I guess we're ..." Boyfriend-girlfriend? Dating? Maybe just "Together?" Dylan makes a vague sound beneath his breath as he crosses to the drama section. My smile curdles. He's been so distracted since we left the Windmill. He said he forgot about a homework assignment and needed to hit the library before class, but it's hard to believe that homework has inspired such urgency. Earlier he acted like he couldn't care less about blowing off our English assignment, and he's never been what anyone would call a diligent student. As if sensing my worry, he reaches out and gives my braid a gentle tug. "I'll only be a second." He drops his backpack onto the ground and runs one hand over the spines of the worn library bindings until he comes to an especially fat book that he snatches out with a grunt. I have time to see that he's chosen The Collected Works of Shakespeare before he flips the book open to the table of contents. His finger traces down one column of plays and then the other, pausing at the last title on the list. His face falls, and I know that something awful has happened. I just can't imagine what. I touch his back, but he flinches and shoots me the strangest look, as if he isn't sure who I am. I drop my backpack beside his. "Are you okay?" He flips through the pages, turning them so fast, they snap. "This is impossible. There must be some mistake." "What is it? What's wrong?" "Complete works, my ass." He slams the book closed and shoves it back onto the shelf. "You're certain you've never heard of Romeo and Juliet? The Shakespeare play? The most tragic love story ever told?" I bite my lip. "I love Shakespeare, but I haven't read every play. I might have missed-" "No. You wouldn't have missed Romeo and Juliet. They've made dozens of movies, and books, and musicals inspired by-" He breaks off and turns to me, pointing a finger at my chest, a slightly manic smile on his face. "West Side Story! You've heard of that. It's based on Romeo and Juliet. The character of Tony is Romeo and Maria is Juliet." His hopeful tone becomes a touch impatient. "You remember. 'Maria.' It's the song you asked me to sing the night we met." "We met in first grade." The words are true, but they feel like a lie. I may have known Dylan almost my entire life, but I've only known this Dylan a couple of days. Maybe that's why I'm not entirely freaked out when he takes my hand in his and whispers, "We both know that isn't true. You know me, Ariel, and you know I'm not him." I have no idea what to say to that. The only thing that comes to mind is "Tristan and Isolde." "What?" "Tristan and Isolde. That's the legend West Side Story is based on." The last hint of hope drains from his face, until he's so pale he looks sick. "Tristan and Isolde. The Irish story, about the knight?" I nod. "The knight who's taking the princess, Isolde, home to his king. She's supposed to marry the king, but she and Tristan drink a love potion on their way back and fall in love forever. That's when Tristan, Tony in the musical, sings the song about Maria." His hand falls to his side, and my fingers slip through his. The loss of contact shakes me, but despite my nerves, I go to him, the same way he came to me when I was upset after the fight. I'm not going to let fear keep me from him. He wants me. He needs me; I can feel it. I wrap my arms around his neck, drawing him close. For the first moment he stays stiff, and my fear threatens to turn to terror. What if I'm wrong, what if this is still just some enormous joke? I'm so accustomed to expecting the worst that it's almost impossible to relax and believe. Hope is dangerous, a hole in my soul's armor. I can feel the vulnerable place pulse and ache, begging me to seal myself up before it's too late. But then, slowly, Dylan's arms come around my waist. He drops his head into the curve of my neck and exhales, his breath warm on my skin. I feel his relief. It's my relief too. My arms vibrate with it. "Ariel," he sighs. "I'm in trouble, I think." "Why?" "I ... I'm not sure I exist," he mumbles into my hair. "Or if I did, things didn't happen the way they did before. I don't know what it means." I pull him closer. He sounds crazy, but then, I know what it feels like to be labeled a nut without my story being heard. What could he mean? Is his twin brother still alive? Has he somehow stepped into Dylan's place and taken over his life? It sounds like the stuff of soap operas, but there's no denying that the Dylan I hold in my arms is very, very different from the one I knew up until nine o'clock Tuesday night. "I don't understand," I say. "But I want to. You can tell me ... whatever it is." "You really won't believe me now," he says. "You've never heard the story. There might not be a story." "You told me the screaming things I hear might be caused by magic, and I still got in the car with you this morning. And I'm here with you now, and I ..." I lick my lips, but find I'm still afraid to say out loud how much I care, no matter how real the emotion is starting to feel. "I want to help. Just ... try me. I think it's obvious I'm not your average skeptic." He stares down at me for a long moment, his defenses dropping until I'm looking straight into his soul. Finally. This is it; the walls are down. I'm about to find out the truth. "Once upon a time, in the city of Verona, Italy, a long, long time ago, there was a boy named Romeo," he says, the catch in his voice telling me this is no fairy tale. This is a closer story, one that tears at him on the way out. "He was sixteen years old and very angry with his father, and the world, and god, though he'd been raised to fear the Church too much to confess that, even to himself. "He was from a wealthy family and had more than his fair share of leisure time to devote to dwelling on his anger. And when Romeo wasn't angry, he was heartsick. He imagined himself quite the tragic lover." He laughs as he scans the row where he shelved Shakespeare's complete works. "He fell in love at least once a fortnight, and it always ended desperately. No girl was ever as perfect as he imagined, until the one girl who captured him completely. She was from a very strict family." "What was her name?" I ask, more curious than I probably should be. "Rosaline," he says. "She and Romeo got along very well. They talked for hours and took long walks in the country, accompanied by her nurse, a giantess with an infected leg who breathed heavily and reeked of vinegar and killed even the thought of romance." His nose wrinkles, but the grin on his face fades quickly. "One day, Romeo convinced Rosaline to meet him behind her father's stables. But instead of the heated kisses the boy was expecting, Rosaline told him she had vowed to remain chaste and was planning to devote her life to the Church. She asked the boy not to call on her anymore, and denied him even a single kiss." "So," I say, sensing that the story isn't finished. "What did the boy do?" "He went out with his cousin Benvolio and got very drunk, and crashed the party of his father's sworn enemy. It was a costume ball, and easy to hide in plain sight. He and his cousin drank their enemy's wine, ate his food, and danced with his women. And then the clock struck ten and a girl of unimaginable beauty appeared on the stairway, and Romeo fell in love again. Just like that. The girl was ... the sun, and she blinded him." He stares into the distance, like he's seeing the girl again and finding her beauty as painful as ever. Something inside me-the childish part that thinks fairies and unicorns and all kinds of magical things could be real if we believed in them the way we believe in bombs and the Internet-knows that this story is truth. Dylan's truth. Or ... someone's truth. Maybe the truth of a boy named Romeo. "Her name was Juliet," he says. "She was the daughter of Romeo's enemy, but it didn't matter. Being with her was magical. She was so good and passionate and sweet and loving and ... his, in a way no one ever had been. He should have been happy." Now the words come in bursts, forced out. "But he wasn't, and he made the biggest mistake of his life. He betrayed her. His intentions were good-at least he convinced himself they were-but he was a coward and ..." He pulls in a breath, but it only seems to make him more upset. "He was cursed, destined to wander the world for eternity doing terrible things. There was no love in him, and he was sure there never would be. And Juliet ... died. And it was his fault." "I'm so sorry." "I don't deserve your pity," he says, voice cracking. "I don't care." I stand on tiptoe to press a kiss to his sad lips. For a second he's still, but then he kisses me back, deep and desperate, like my mouth contains the oxygen he couldn't find in the air. His arms wrap tight around me and squeeze, and I can feel his heartbeat echo in my chest. He kisses me until my lips bruise and my head spins and my pulse races and I start to feel ... dangerously close. It would be so easy to slip out of my skin and seep into his. I could lose myself in him, step through the door he holds open and never find my way back through. I could-"Dylan? Ariel?" Mrs. Lorado sounds more shocked than scandalized, but her interruption still has the same effect. Dylan and I jump apart, breathing deep, hands shaking. I turn to Mrs. Lorado, but it's hard to focus on her milky face with its puckered lips. All I see is a blur of white swimming before me, and an explosion of color below her neck. She's famous for wearing obnoxious sweaters with cartoon characters or googly-eyed puppies or Santa Claus and his reindeer, months after Christmas is over. When I first met her, I thought the sweaters were a sign that she was lovably quirky, like my sixth-grade teacher, who handed out unbirthday cards every Friday. But Mrs. Lorado isn't lovable, and doesn't realize she's quirky, and I get the feeling she hates kisses in the library as much as she hates beverages and food and talking above a whisper. "This is unacceptable," she says when the seconds stretch on without a word from me or Dylan. "What do you have to say for yourselves?" "Sorry?" I think I should add something else, but I can't think of what. All I can think of is Dylan's story about Romeo and Juliet and magic and unimaginable possibilities that I can nevertheless imagine. Pretty easily. "Sorry is inadequate, Ariel. It's this sort of thing that leads to the library being closed until the librarian is here to open it," she says, gearing up into full lecture mode. "And you know that there are no public displays of affection allowed anywhere on campus. It's in the handbook. Twice." "Does anyone actually read the handbook?" Dylan asks. "Don't sass me, Mr. Stroud." Mrs. Lorado crosses her arms, making the eyes of the Persian cat on her sweater narrow threateningly. "Consider this your warning. Next time I catch you doing anything but reading in the library, you'll be marching straight down to the principal's office. Now get to homeroom." Dylan and I mumble "sorry" a few more times, grab our backpacks, and hurry toward the library door as the first bell rings. We emerge into the sunshine, but it doesn't feel as warm as it did, and the happy cloud that carried me along the path has blown away. I aim myself toward my locker but can't muster the speed walk that's required if I'm going to make it there and back to building four before the second bell. This world doesn't seem as urgent, not with Dylan's story lingering in my mind, so big and unfinished. "That was a true story," I say, breathless, though I've barely reached strolling speed. "Wasn't it?" "It's my story. I know it sounds crazy, but-" "Is that how you learned about magic?" I ask, letting him know I won't waste his time with talk of how crazy things can also be true. I know all about crazy. And true. And I know a crazy truth when I hear it. "Were you really cursed?" "I was. A man tricked me into signing away my soul, and I spent hundreds of years trapped in my own private hell." I make a sound, but he cuts me off. "Don't. I meant what I said. I don't deserve pity. I was ... very selfish. And a coward." I take his hand. A couple of girls rush by on our left, but their hurry doesn't infect us. If anything, we walk slower. "You're not that person now." "I don't know. Maybe I am." He stops and turns to me. "But I do care about you, probably more than I've cared about anyone since-" "Juliet," I finish, surprised that I'm not jealous. Not even a little. I'm ... dizzy. He hasn't said he loves me, but he might as well have. "Yes. Since Juliet." "So you're ... Romeo." He nods. "But how? And why? And ... Shakespeare?" "I knew him." "You knew Shakespeare? The Shakespeare." My god. He's ancient. His story made me think he might be, but ... Shakespeare. It's mind-numbing to think about how old that is. "I told him a version of the story I told you, and he turned it into a play. He'd heard the legend before; I simply drew his attention to its dramatic potential." He stops outside a darkened classroom, one of the resource rooms that aren't used until later in the day. "I told him the easy part. The rest is a longer story." He glances down the path before reaching for the door. A voice in my head whispers that I can't stay here with him-my mom will not be happy if she gets a call about me skipping class-but I ignore the voice and let him pull me into the shadowy room. I'll get home before Mom and catch the recording. Even if I don't, who cares? There is magic in the world. There are cursed boys and dangerous secrets and maybe answers and hope and happy endings. For all I know, there might be unicorns and fairies, too, and there's no way I'm going to let real life stick its ugly, wart-covered nose into this moment.